


Morning After

by running_in_circles



Series: Of Roses and Of Lions [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Falling In Love, Gen, I realise how much I write England when it comes to these two and try even things up, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Love, Meet the Family, Memories, Rowing, Triggers, or the closest thing to human family England really has, there is some content about being triggered here so please read only if you're sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 10:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25848280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/running_in_circles/pseuds/running_in_circles
Summary: July 2014. England and India have settled into something of a rhythm, even if they put no name to what they're doing. When England takes her away for a week and introduces her to his human friends, India decides the time is ripe to take things further, but there is a lot more pain to be faced before their sun rises.
Relationships: China/India (Hetalia), England/Female India (Hetalia), England/India (Hetalia), frequent background references to
Series: Of Roses and Of Lions [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/261634
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14
Collections: Humans know about Nations/People interacting with Nations





	1. Henley Royal Regatta

When she comes through the gate, England is stood waiting at the edge of the metal bollards, right at the front of the crowd of people with placards and airport trolleys, already smiling right at her. She feels an easy answering smile stretch across her face and heads straight towards him.

“Hi,”

“Hi,” his answering greeting is happy, but there is an awkwardness as they both step towards each other, not knowing what to do. India pauses and England has raised his arms, perhaps to go in for a hug, but he covers the moment by instead reaching for her suitcase in a silent offer to carry it for her.

India does not like public affection, and whilst she had assumed that England had remained as cold and stiff-upper-lipped on that front as ever too, he has somewhat appeared to melt in recent years. Not that it matters, but she supposes that their cautious declarations in his flat back in February and the fact she had told him to not bother wasting the money on a hotel on _yet another_ trade delegation Cameron sent to India in early May and stay in her spare room instead means that they are going in a direction such that England had thought to upgrade her to the airport hug.

And then there’s also the fact that it is very easy for her to make him happy, so she compromises and takes the hand that is not on her suitcase and holds it in hers they start to walk back towards Heathrow’s car park. Sure enough, he smiles in surprise somewhere into the middle distance between them, his eyes crinkling and cheeks reddening slightly.

“How was your flight?” he asks when he has recovered from his pleasure.

“Long. But I got a lot of work done last night because I could stay up and sleep on the plane, so I’m ahead of work at least.”

“That’s good. I’ve got the secure Wi-Fi set up in Oxford now so you can get as much as you want done for the week.” England tells her as he loads her bag into the boot of his car.

She gets into the passenger seat and he starts up the car. “Well, I’ll see what needs doing, but I do want to spend some time with you. You’ll be back to work next week anyway so I can work as much as I want in the flat then.” And again, she sees the ghost of another smile as he manoeuvres into the queue to leave the car park.

These two weeks were going to be something new for them. When India had dropped England off to the airport in May, she had asked when she would next see him. It was a new question, one neither had asked before at the end of their trips. The usual flurry of European Union and Asian meetings and initiatives, as well as David Cameron’s insistence that his business ministers flirt with India had meant that they could easily see each other a few times a year. And even if Cameron was blissfully unaware of how literally his country was taking his instructions, India had thought that after a year and a half that she could consider meeting beyond when global events conspired. England had offered to come over again in the summer, when he was usually allowed some time off alongside his people, but India had insisted on coming here instead. She had told him it would be nice to get away from Delhi in the high summer heat, but in reality, she liked the equality of their accidental rhythm of alternately visiting, and it is still easier to enjoy England where there are far fewer sour memories to contend with.

“You’ve brought the summer with you,” England says amicably, nodding at the burst of white hot sunshine that barges into the car when he leaves the enormous car park. The temperature dial on his dashboard points at 30 degrees, and India is not surprised to see light perspiration on his temples already.

“Oh dear, have we already hit this year’s peak temperatures?” India teases.

Twenty more minutes into the drive, she has demanded that he roll down all of his windows.

England smirks as he complies, “Not a bad performance, this weather, is it?”

India leans into the dry, crackling hot air that rushes into her face gratefully. “It’s not that it’s hot, it’s just that you as an entity are violently unprepared for even mildly warm weather, which makes perfectly manageable summer weather unbearable,” she mutters haughtily into the wind.

England laughs, and India wipes sweat off her neck. She is well aware that there are two weeks in his frankly miserable climate where the south-east of the country resembles some of her sticky late spring days and his people wilt like parched daisies, but it has been a long time since she has had to deal with it first-hand. It would not do, however, to dwell on the pangs of memories no longer relevant that she sometimes feels now she begun spending time with him again, especially not on the first day of the first time she has come for him and him alone, so she hastily changes the conversation.

“Tell me more about Henley. I still feel like I know basically nothing.”

When she had offered to visit, England had predictably gone into overdrive planning the minutiae of a perfect stay for her. It had been amusing to see him oscillate between grand plans and quiet ventures that would not upset the plodding pace at which whatever this is was developing. Nonetheless, even if India does not need attention, she likes it, and watching him plan out a fortnight to her tastes like a bee busily gathering honey had pulled at something in her chest unexpectedly.

Eventually, England had suggested that he take his week off and whisk her away somewhere, and they spend the second week back in London so she could still get some work done and take their usual long walks in the park and dinners in that already forms much of the time they spend together. They had settled on Oxford for their week away as somewhere India had admittedly always been fond of. On top of that, England had asked her cautiously if she would like to meet some people – humans, he had assured quickly, humans with no connections to nations other than himself who could not spread word and would not look on their relationship in a way that made her life more awkward. But she had gathered that in recent years, England had taken to spending more time with his people than people like them, and from the oddly shy way in which he had asked, she sensed that they were important to him. Important enough that he was not even sure of introducing her to them, and England is in the habit of falling over himself to give her what she wants.

She had agreed quickly, mostly to not hurt his feelings. As it transpired, England had asked her this because her trip coincided with Henley Royal Regatta. She knows that England goes every year, and that most of his dear human friends have always been in the landed and governmental circles that attended these sorts of things. He had initially offered to miss the Regatta this year and spend the whole week in Oxford with her instead. India had shouted him down and said of course she didn’t mind meet his human friends, and of course he shouldn’t miss the things he normally does with them for her. Devotion certainly turned her on, but she found nothing attractive about a person throwing away the things they cared about for her. _Self-righteousness,_ China had called that, many thousands of years ago.

It is a decidedly odd part of the trip to her, and India is not particularly interested in watching Etonians sitting on boats backwards and making them go fast. Nonetheless, it is two days out of the seven they will spend in nearby Oxford, and India is a gregarious person. Keeping her ‘maybe, could be, but isn’t really-at-all’ _boyfriend_ (she still wrinkles in embarrassment at the word) a dirty little secret is not something she likes. In that respect, it would be nice to be normal for a weekend and be with England with other people, even if she would no doubt stick out like a sore thumb and find little of _her_ normality where they were going.

“There isn’t much to know, really. Everyone who’s keen on rowing and does reasonably well in whatever national or international league they’re in comes together to race each other for two weeks. It’s pretty solid racing to watch, but most people just go for the social aspect and to see people they know and drink Pimms and eat little sandwiches with them whilst the weather is good,” England tells her as he joins a new motorway. They cross a bridge under which the Thames glints sharply in the dry heat.

“And your friends? Tell me more about them.”

England is more hesitant this time. “Well, there’s a few families I’ve always been close who, who’ve known what I am. Way back when, they’d have been involved in the army or Privy Council or something and would have had to know, and well, sometimes we kept in touch. None of them work for the government now or anything, but they couldn’t help but notice the man their grandparents and great-grandparents were friends with never aged.”

“Anyone else?”

  
“There’s a couple of people who are involved with the Oxford policy stuff as well.” A new research project, he’d told her, some new data-collecting initiative on electoral mood his government had commissioned research for that he, as something on an aerial on all moods of his people, was sent to be involved with. The last university degree he’d taken was before the First World War, so a few select people had had to be let in on the secret of what he was that was traditionally confined to the upper rungs of government so they knew why the hell he was sitting in on their work.

“What are they like?”

“Oh, you know. They’re…well, they’re good friends of mine, so I hope they’re not too…you don’t have to meet them, honestly, I just thought…” he trails off shrugging, eyes fixed on the road.

“Look, I’ve told you I want to meet them,” India says, more surprised than annoyed at his continued reticence, “We’ve already talked about this.” And to India, introspective or emotional conversations were bad enough the first time.

England purses his lips at that and seems to choose not to say anything.

There is a stale silence in the car for a few minutes, and India is not sure how to break it or why it formed. She folds her arms and stares out of the open window at blurred grey-green fields and motorway, and watches England eventually streak his eyes off the road momentarily to look at her.

“Sorry,” he says at last, and she turns to see him looking a little-shame-faced as he turns into a smaller road, “Of course I want you to meet my friends. I just know that we’re trying to take this all slowly. I don’t want you to be bored either. I know it’s a bit strange dragging you up to Henley.”

India reaches over to pat him lightly on the thigh, “Listen, if I don’t want to do something, I’ll _tell_ you. And stop worrying, I’ll charm all of your friends senseless. They’ll be _my_ friends by the time we leave, you wait and see.” That gets a laugh from him as she takes her hand back.

***

It is early dusk by the time they arrive at where they’re staying in Oxford, and the sky stretches pink and gold for miles over their heads, disappearing behind the leafy, red-bricked houses of Jericho, lit up in orange by the setting sun. Their street is quiet; the only sounds India can hear are the distant bark of a dog and the even more distant laugh of a small child. The air is sweet with lavender and summer as England parks in the driveway of an old, large townhouse and goes to unlock the door.

“I’ve never been to this house in Oxford, have I?” asks India as she follows him to the gabled doorway, set with fat, full roses on either side.

England opens the door to a to a open white hallway ending in a large, gleaming kitchen and conservatory. “No, I think you stayed at the Rhodes House whenever you were here for one of the imperial conferences,” he says this with an air of determinedly admitting something unpleasant, “This is a fairly new find for me. Blair asked me if I wanted a place after Scotland and Wales both got their own and they got me a couple of houses, one here and one in York. They rent them out as short-term council housing, I think, when I’m not there.”

England goes back to the car boot for her bag and leaves it at the foot of a wide staircase just before the kitchen. “Cup of tea?” he calls as he heads in.

India is still at the doorway, remembering the dark, cold passages of stone of Rhodes House. She follows him in to the kitchen. It is shining silicon and appliances, at which England is busy with a formidable-looking kettle. Beyond is a living area white leather sofas and grey wooden floors and the back garden, in which she can see more roses twinkling luminously in the early twilight.

“What do they use Rhodes House for now?” she asks as she comes to lean against the counter by him and he hands her tea.

“Hm? Oh, I think it’s used for conferences and student accommodation now. The Rhodes Scholarship is still around, and their students use the building.”

India hums distantly, watching a robin peck about in the garden through the conservatory door as she considers this. It finds an old, abandoned ground nest made form another bird, and gives it a wide berth.

“So I thought we could order in tonight, if you like,” says England, breaking her reverie as he takes up his own mug and leans against the counter by her side, not quite touching, “watch something, and have an early night. We’ll have to leave her by nine to make it Henley, and we’ll probably be back late.”

India tears her gaze away from the robin, now spooked enough by the nest that it takes its leave of the garden, and looks at him. “Sounds good to me,” she says, “I’ve brought along some more _Feluda_ , if you’d like to watch.” Some time in May, England had got surprisingly hooked into the detective series. He could just about watch without subtitles too, his command of Bengali rusty but old.

“Perfect,” he smiles.

***

Sometime later, India has scouted the upstairs and England gives her first pick of the bedrooms. She picks a little one that overlooks the garden and the last winks of pink sun over north Oxford. He carries her suitcase up and they order Chinese, a takeaway they can agree on. The sofas turn out to be surprisingly soft and low, and with the conservatory door cracked open, the evening air makes the room soft and tepid as she and England sit side by side, calves touching. As the settle into their second movie, she is pleasantly lethargic with a belly full of takeaway. England offers to take her feet so she can stretch out on the sofa and she surprises herself by agreeing. As England rubs her feet in his lap (his fingers are surprisingly soft and press down in all of the right spots, she’ll have to encourage this sort of behaviour in the future), a thought about change and seventy years’ of life cycles tugs at the back of her brain, but her eyelids are drooping aggressively and she does not want to fight them.

The day has cooled enough that she accepts England’s offer of hot chocolate, and they bid goodnight to each other and she takes her mug up with her. The bed is small and surprisingly pliable, and the room silent. She settles under the covers and sighs deeply. As twilight darkens outside, she thinks mildly of tomorrow, when she will put on the fancy sari she has picked out and she will have to sip Anglicised tea and Pimms and make polite conversation.

She has spent far too many millennia on Earth to swoon, or to sigh or to fall in love. In any case, she is far too buttoned up against the idea, and likes her comfortable, busy life and the few people she lets into it very far. She is never going to fall passionately for England. This, she already knows. But England is…comfortable. Warm. Easy. And she is comfortable when she is with him. It is more than she expected and the quiet satisfaction it brings is starting to go deeper than she thought it would. If they carry on like this, she knows she expects think of him with tenderness, and perhaps a little pride.

As she turns over and shuts her eyes, the emptiness of the bed she is in is suddenly starker. She decides, mildly, that since the river is pulling her along, this trip is a good time to dip her oars in the water and carry herself forward with it.


	2. Dipping the Oars

India wakes from a deep, solid sleep the next morning at half seven. The alarm on her phone is singing in shrilly in chorus with some late songbirds that appear to have nested in a gutter outside her window. She watches them as she dresses for breakfast. A parent – she cannot tell whether it is the mother or father with England’s birds – is pushing worms into their younglings’ beaks. They look big, their feathers almost the hue of their parents – almost ready to fly the nest.

Breakfast is with England on the kitchen island, awash with Saturday sunshine that turns everything white-gold as he fusses over tickets and she works through some toast and a medley of fruit he had run out to buy that morning so they could put off their shopping until after the weekend.

Back in her room, she works steadily. She has selected a dark red sari, an understated thing that nonetheless radiates. She dresses her wrists in flickers of gold but leaves it there, dashes kohl around her eyes and shakes her hair down her back, smirking into the mirror beside her bed.

Downstairs, she finds England frowning deeply at the mirror in the hall. He looks, quite frankly, at his most _fuckable_. India registers this unbidden thought with mild surprise, but there is no denying he has always looked his best in a well cut lounge suit and cravat. The sharp grey of the blazer draws out the seawater of his eyes, somehow, and there is something quietly powerful in the stiff creases of his tailored trousers and waistcoat. The bright, white hallway shrinks somewhat, as he stands looking pensively at himself.

He doesn’t look up as she approaches, and she thinks that on closer inspection the cut of the suit could be pulled off slightly more elegantly if his cheeks did not look so paper pale, so she stands behind him, rests the point of her chin on his shoulder and says, “Well, don’t you look dashing.”

Predictably, he flushes lightly. It finishes the look well, India thinks approvingly, admiring her efforts as their eyes meet in the mirror. His gaze drags back away quickly, however, eyebrows bunching low over his eyes. She does not know when he took to behaving like this: seventy years ago and before, she can think of many words for many feelings that governed their interactions, but _embarrassment_ was never a particularly prominent one.

India follows his gaze, confused, and realises he is not frowning at what she said but down at his own midriff. He drops his hand surreptitiously from his stomach, where two buttons on his waistcoat looked strained.

She feels a warm rush of some unknown feeling below her collarbone as she realises what he’s really upset about, but she pulls him around and away from the mirror instead of trying to name it.

“Come on, we’ll be late if we stand here all day,” she tells him firmly – what better distraction could she offer than untimeliness?

England blinks at her several times, as if seeing her properly for the first time. The frown slides off his face, and his lips move wordlessly a bit, before: “You look…Gosh, you look beautiful.”

India smirks up at him, “That was the plan.”

That gets a proper smile, and he clears his throat gruffly twice before, “Quite right about time,” looking beyond her at some imaginary clock in the hallway importantly, “we’d best get a move on.” He releases himself gently from her hold and pecks about meticulously for a few moments in the living room beyond before returning with everything they needed for the day.

He opens the front door to blinding sunshine and holds it open for her. She has another odd, warm flood in her chest as he settles in the car beside her and smiles at her, rolls the windows down, and reverses onto the street. She seems to be getting such warm, chesty feelings quite often around him. However, it is far too early on in far too nice a day to go about dissecting emotions, so she cheerfully attributes it to heartburn from his cooking and pushes it to the back her mind as they drive into the sun, away from the spires of Oxford.

***

Henley-on-Thames is a village of thatched roofs and garden lawns sloping down to the Thames, which thrusts thickly around the village, glinting cheerfully in the July sun. England parks by the river, where metal stadium stands have been set up an orderly line across a two kilometre strait of river. A crowd is beginning to mill between them. England leads her past this however, to a smaller grandstand and enclosure slightly upstream. Here, there is a short queue of people waiting to be let in, women dressed in sundresses and elaborate hats and men in pastel and muted colours of what England is wearing. India listens to the dignified, quiet chatter around them as they work their way to the front of the queue and the security at the front nod at England as they walk through and into the enclosure.

Here by the river, there are people sat, dangling their hands in the water. Already, official boats and judicators are setting up on the river cutting through its small waves like cream. Closer by, open-air bars and tables of strawberries and cream and bubbling prosecco and miniscule sandwiches are dotted about. Loud, garish racing blazers roam the enclosure, barely disguised trophies of past glory. Already, she can hear the sound of well-to-do braying laughter floating in the river air. It is the sort of thing she was accustomed to, even if never comfortable with, a century ago when she was sometimes obliged to be present at such events in the Empire. Perhaps now, she cannot even say she is accustomed, for she has no conception of what customs are now given the intervening decades.

For a second, she feels a wave of dizziness at her presence, so free and willing and in such different circumstances, in the type of place at which a hundred years ago she would have to be imprisoned by a corset and her unwilling allegiance to the Empire. It is a wire thin distinction, and perhaps not distinction enough for what has passed before, to see that this time she holds her head high. For a fleeting second, she sees exactly Ireland is still baffled and wary of what she is doing even if outwardly supportive.

Nonetheless, she has spent centuries in royal courts and espousing her own brand of honour and proper conduct – her favourite victories have always been sly and calculating. It is she who has England now; and at the word from her he would submit willingly and happily, belonging to her alone, for as long as she wanted. It is her wanting that has been left in doubt, not his submission. That she will today parade this fact around his own people in his own backseats of comfortable, vibrating power and that he wants precisely nothing more than this makes the situation not only very different, but distinctly pleasurable.

So she tucks her hand securely above England’s elbow and smiles sunnily at him – he had been watching her reaction carefully, probably worried that this pageantry would finally be enough to make her to admit this was a cruel joke all along and she actually finds him revolting – and says, “Won’t you show me around?”

He looks visibly relieved and they take a walk around the perimeter of the enclosure, England pointing out various internationally famous rowers and stopping by a small bar for two flutes of champagne. He downs his in one – “I’ll need to get drunk fast enough so I can be sober in the evening when I need to drive,” he explains to her conscientiously – and picks up a third one to for the walk. They stop at the half-way point by the river, still holding onto each other, looking out at the low-flying geese squawking in formation, skimming its surface.

“Arthur, old boy!” hails a voice beyond them. They turn to see a ruddy-faced man in his forties approaching him, a plastic flute of prosecco in each hand. “Arthur, you didn’t say when you’d be here! Golly, it’s been months!”

“Hello, Will,” England says enthusiastically. He turns to India, “This is Will Hestley, his family and I have been good friends for years. I was with them for the Christmas before this one, the one I was telling you about when I finally got rid of the Bentley.”

“Finally, gave up right in our garden on Christmas Eve, didn’t it? Ran right over the most frightful gnome Susan’s sister gave us years ago, goodness know why,” Will recounts, laughing. He holds out his hand and India shakes it, smiling.

“Will, this is India,” England, twists towards her slightly, resting his other hand briefly on top of hers, still hooked around his arm, and patting it. “She’s in the country for two weeks, and she’s consented to be dragged along here.”

“Oho,” says the other man, a knowing gleam coming into his eye. He doesn’t chase the subject, however, instead saying, “A pleasure to meet you, I’m sure. First time at Henley?”

India admits that it is. Will takes her empty flute and fetches a full one for her. He is, it transpires, a senior civil servant whose grandfather had been a doctor and first responder in the Battle of Britain and couldn’t help but notice England walk away repeatedly from impossible crashes.

Will insists on taking them to some seating in the grandstands, with about ten other people. “Look who I’ve managed to drag up!” he exclaims to them, and as England and India settle about the group, he is promptly sent on another prosecco run.

A flurry of introductions are exchanged. She remembers their faces more than their names, but manages to catalogue Susan, Will’s kindly looking, plain-faced wife, who smiles at her and twists in her seat to ask India about where they’re staying. As it turns out, she grew up in Oxford, and as her husband returns with armfuls of glasses, she tells India about the city and asks where England is taking her. Out of the corner of her eyes, she watches England’s face grow unbearably soft as he watches them.

Susan is unperturbed when India admits that she was last in Oxford in 1921, despite the fact India can barely pass for thirty, assuring her she will be surprised how much she still recognises. Beside her, two golden-haired little boys in miniature suits alternate between comparing each other to the muscled hunks of rowers that pass them by and fighting, though a perfunctory glance from Susan is enough to dismiss the more serious insults.

England, when he has finished conversing eagerly with a white-haired, straight-backed man sat heavily on his seat and what looks like his adult son and daughter next to him, turns to these two boys.

“Goodness, somebody’s grown this year,” he growls at the smaller one playfully, picking him up under the arms and swinging him around, “You’ll soon be too big to sit on my lap anymore, Harry.”

India has not seen his face look so openly, unguardedly fond, and so when Harry’s older brother causes a general disturbance by quipping that this is as much as Harry will ever grow and prompting another scuffle, she somehow cannot help herself leaning in and kissing his cheek.

“What was that for?” he asks, delighted, and she only shrugs.

***

India finds herself welcomed more than graciously by the group they are around; almost everyone seems pleased if not entirely surprised to find her there, and she senses that she is an explanation for why almost every family here has seen England less than they are used to recently. Not that they seem to mind; as they turn and adjust the way they are sat in time for the start of the first racing heat that day, she finds herself sat next to the adult son and daughter of the man England had been speaking so eagerly to. They are both dressed in the omnipresent garish rowing blazers, hers slung casually over her dress. They are evidently au-fait with the racing programme for the day, talking on either side of India to each other enthusiastically about a rower in the second boat who, she surmises, is a school friend who has recently qualified for the Olympics. She suspects that they are speaking like this to draw her into friendly conversation, but India cannot for the life of her summon up a single fact about the sport that seems relevant and specific enough to be of use. She thinks of cricket and of Lord’s a little grumpily, before the daughter, sat on her right, changes tack.

“Sorry, I can imagine all our rowing talk is getting a bit much, I’m Alice, by the way.” she smiles, her name almost forming part of her apology. As India is at an event dedicated solely to high-quality rowing, she wants to point out that she has scant grounds for complaint, but she accepts the self-deprecation for what is, an open invitation to join the conversation.

“No, no, I’m enjoying myself,” India assures her, “It’s nice to see England so happy here around you all,” she nods to England himself, in the row of seats above and to the right of them, his eyes bright and talking rapidly to Susan and Will.

“It is very nice to see him so happy,” she agrees, following her gaze, “Thank you,” she says sincerely, “It seems like that’s largely down to you.”

India is touched, and more than a little surprised. “Do you think so? We haven’t actually spent that much time together, you know. You’ve all been looking after him for a lot longer than I have.” And she means it: she sees now where England has been spending his holidays and weekends and Christmases.

Alice shakes her head warmly. “England has come around to ours for Sunday lunch every other week since I was small. He’s always been close with Father and practically seen me grow up. He’s been happier this year than I’ve ever seen him. He’s never introduced anyone else or brought them to things like this before. I know it’s all early days, of course,” she adds hurriedly, looking worried that she’s said too much, “I just mean that – well, thank you. It’s lovely to see him like this.”

India smiles back widely. There is no time to say any more however, as an announcement comes through on a loudspeaker from the motorboat on the river; five sleek, serious boats are lined up next to each other. The race is about to begin. A quiet bolt of excitement goes through the closure, and everyone ceases their conversation as one.

A few more words are barked from the motorboat loudspeaker, and all of a sudden all five boats are galloping up the river, blades slicing it up like cloth, loosing clumps of spray.

Around her people, people are shouting dignified cries of encouragement – names of rowers, of boats, and then isolated words like “Legs!” that make no sense to India whatsoever. Perhaps some of her bemusement shows on her face, because Alice begins to point out rowers and boats and strategies to her.

A few more races down, India is chatting to Alice about her rowing career, which began at school and continued onto Clare College, Cambridge where she read History. Alice is attentive, and asks her questions in turn, and it turns out that Alice wrote her thesis about the Non-Allied Movement and is both extremely knowledgeable and curious about India’s thoughts on it.

They break for lunch, and England comes around to where India is sat with Alice, still bright-cheeked from talking and ruddy from the sun and alcohol. “Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to leave you alone,” he squeezes her hand and takes the seat just vacated by Alice’s brother.

“It’s okay, Alice was just teaching me all of the stuff about rowing you neglected to mention,” she laughs, squeezing his hand back and smiling at the girl.

Lunch is plates of delicate little cucumber sandwiches, Anglicised onion bhajis (she sighs in equal parts exasperation and fondness at those) and a jug between the two of them of Pimms. She sits by England, their ankles brushing, and as they finish, she begins to think she has underestimated the drink; sweet and fruity it may be, but her head is already spinning firmly and pleasantly as England takes their plates back.

He comes back with company, and looks delighted about it. India knows that this for England is highly unusual, and guesses that these people are also important to him.

“India, this is Dr Carston,” he tells her, gesturing to the first of the two men with him, “we’ve been working together at Oxford on the electoral data stuff. He’s the Master of University College and one of the cleverest people I’ve met.”

“Don’t listen to a thing England says. Call me Arnold,” Dr Carston says warmly, as they shake hands. “This is my husband, Vishnu,” he adds, winding his fingers through his companion’s hand and sharing a fond smile with him.

India eyes up Vishnu, but not much; her people have spread widely over the world and made and done many things. She is proud of them, but after a generation or two they begin to fade from her consciousness, plugging into the new identity of their new home. England has plenty of them, and she largely pays them little mind.

However, as Vishnu smiles and she grasps his hand to shake it too, she realises with a small jolt that she is wrong about him. He is hers, more or less. Born in Punjab and certainly attached to it too, though she can sense definitive trails of England over him as well, and he is obviously married and settled here.

They sit together for the afternoon’s programme. At some point, England must decide that from henceforth he must allow his body to sober up for the evening, because she seems to receive both his and her drinks from then on. She only notices her headiness rise vaguely at first though, because she and Vishnu make it through first introductions, polite questions about themselves and then begin a long and deep dissection of his emigration for his DPhil at Oxford.

“I was only meant to be here for four years. But then my supervisor was so brilliant and stupidly scatter-brained that one day I made him dinner and told him I was going to have to marry him to keep him from bumbling off and leaving his hob on and burning the house down,” Vishnu laughs. He shares a look of deep and familiar affection with Arnold, by his side. It was the kind of love that shuts out in its surety, and for a moment India feels surprisingly cold and numb as she watches Vishnu straighten his husband’s crooked tie and Arnold tuck an arm around him.

She is not sure why it hurts, except perhaps she had found something she thought belonged to her in this distant crowd that was someone else’s, an orientating star on a cloudy night, only to find he wasn’t really hers – no more than any of these people were England’s. He was happily accounted for and held as he fell asleep, as they all were.

She is surprised, and a little annoyed, by the barb that feels like. India does not particularly see love as a treatment for loneliness – in fact, in recent years she could be persuaded it was a cause more than a cure. In any case, she carries ghosts inside herself that neither Vishnu nor anyone here could ever begin to bear.

Well, perhaps except for one person here. Maybe this is why she turns and laces her fingers tightly though England’s hand and kisses it carefully, making the moment last long enough that she both misses the rest of their moment of love and catches England’s startled puppy-dog look of affection. It baselessly continues to irritate her though; their gentle goading of each other, the causal arm Arnold keeps around him throughout the afternoon, the way Vishnu fusses the start of sunburn on his husband’s nose.

Perhaps it is this irritation that keeps her hand laced firmly with England’s in his lap, and eventually makes her half-hook her foot around his so her knee is tucked under his. Not that he is going to complain, course. Eventually, enough of the irritation remains that, four glasses of prosecco later, when her throat is buzzing and her head is loose and floating, she makes England fetch her still another drink and she and Vishnu switch to Punjabi for the rest of the evening. Vishnu is further gone then she is, a hot flush visible on his cheeks even through his dark skin, and follows along willingly enough. There is a faint sense of conquest in that; of marking out territory in taking Vishnu somewhere his husband cannot follow, if only in conversation.

Arnold settles for speaking to England, whose hand she takes back into captivity when he brings her back her drink even as she turns away from him to talk. Dusk falls as they chatter on, and she catches snatches of England’s more muted conversation with Arnold by their side. Perhaps there is another conquest in this; speaking her language, taking her people our of their ties with his, in the middle of his world surrounded by his friends. It doesn’t feel much like one though, when England is so obviously delighted in her presence here and she feels so heady and drunk. It doesn’t feel like one either, when Vishnu turns to his husband at the end of their talk and happily relates all they have said to each other. And it certainly doesn’t feel like one when she sees England through the warm twilight, shining with a rare, open pleasure surrounded by the people he so obviously belongs with and to. She has come to see him as reserved and perhaps even lonely, but now she sees that she has simply never been in the closely-held circle to which he shows happiness.

***

At the end of the races, England takes her on a round of goodbyes – she shakes hands with Susan and Will, Alice pulls them both in for a hug and Vishnu and Arnold insist that they visit for dinner when whilst they’re in Oxford. India gets one last twinge of senseless annoyance when Vishnu pulls her in for a one-armed hug, the other wound around his husband’s.

India is deep in thought as they walk back to England’s car. She distantly registers that England does not try to pull her out of her preoccupation, but does not bother to explore why. She is more surprised that a day surrounded by England’s friends, who so obviously love him and want to love her, and by a human couple as in love as the interchangeable millions of others ones in the world, could leave her feeling so…irritated no longer seems like the right world. Neither does annoyed. Lonely? The hollow emptiness inside her is a new feeling, and it is true she has never really felt lonely before. Her life has always been full of squabbling siblings and distant parents and loyal courtiers and an ever-growing contingent of ghosts that she holds in her heart.

Upon examination though, the closest feeling she can compare this is how she feels when she looks at her newest brothers; that the ghosts of people she has known and loved and lost have grown so numerous in her heart over the centuries that she is scared she can scarcely see their descendants and replacements through them.

She suddenly feels very aware of this foreign ground so far from her native earth, and this relationship, so cautiously light and careful and slow that it offers little substitute for the myriad nights of human sex she has quietly let go of for it.

Her head still wobbles lethargically with alcohol, but she is grateful for it; it fills her stomach with a pleasant burn that is at odds with the increasingly senseless sadness in her head.

She has figured nothing out by the time they find their car in the gathering dark, and England holds her door open for her. She looks up at him, deep blue eyes and tailored suit, holding open her doors, carrying her bags, watching her with admiration and fondness – though she looks long enough that this changes to askance – and does what seems instinctively like it will stopper up the way she feels.

She takes his face in her hands and stretches up to kiss him, long and deep and deliberate. She can feel the surprise on his lips, and pushes herself closer into him. The blasted car door is still between them, so she side-steps it and slams it shut without breaking contact. England’s hands come to rest at her hips, and she drops her arms to wind them around his neck, pulling them both back against the car so he presses her up against it. The feeling of a warm body on hers is far more agreeable than her thoughts.

He comes up for air first, but does not break away, so his face still makes up her vision. “India?” he rasps, sounding slightly winded.

She is in no mood to explain whatsoever, so she opens her car door again, and grins darkly, “Come on, take me home,” jerking her head at the driver’s seat to indicate that he should get in.

He hesitates – obviously wanting to ask more but battling some other desire India cannot read as well. Eventually, this desire seems to win and he gets in the car and starts it up wordlessly.

As he turns onto the main road, she steers the conversation: “I had a really nice time,” she says, reaching out to stroke his knee and leaving her hand there. She sees England glance down at it with the same look he had had outside the car but does not let him address it. “I’m really glad I met your friends today. They were really kind – and I got to see where you’ve been hiding for the last few years.”

England laughs at this, distracted. “I’d like to say maybe I just get on better with people than nations, but I think it’s cheating when they’re your own. They can’t help but like you somehow.”

India sees a lead into talking about her and Vishnu, and steers away again. “Well, they seem to be doing you good. I’ve never seen you so happy to be around other people.”

England smiles again, “I really liked having you there,” he said quietly. “It felt…it felt right.” He looks suddenly wary, and India guesses that he thinks he has overstepped some careful boundary.

“Good,” she decides on saying, “I’m glad.” She strokes his knee again with the hand already there.

***

By the time they get back to Oxford, night has fallen properly, and India decides that her heart feels too full of emptiness tonight to bear. She tells herself that she has already decided to dip her oars anyway.

England parks and leads into the hallway and turns to her, probably to ask if she wants the kettle on, but he doesn’t get any of the words out. She closes the distance between them again and pulls him into another deep kiss. He is irritatingly cautious, careful, even as his arms wind around her waist and his hands meet firmly at the small of her back. She steps backwards slowly, tugging him along with her. When her feet find the first step of the staircase, she steps backwards onto it so they stand at the same height. She releases him momentarily to let him breathe, pulling their foreheads together instead.

“Why don’t you stay with me tonight?” she murmurs into him.

He looks dazed, but his eyes are still focused. “Do you want me to?” he asks quietly, stroking her hips. The intent is clear – it reminds her that this step for them would always be down to her. It is not control, really, when they both know why it is her prerogative.

Still, he looks good and she has made him happy all day and it is sweet how much that matters to him, so in answer she smiles and tugs on his hand. “Come on,” she says, and leads the way upstairs.

She takes him to her room, because it feels strange to demand she stays in his. She pushes him gently down until he is lying on the bed and crawls up against him, legs between his, She meets his lips again with renewed enthusiasm, her body rolling of its own accord.

It is not their first time together, but the last time was so long ago and so much was different she doubts either of them want to count it. Bodies changed, and so did people. She thinks back to England frowning into the mirror this morning and smiles into the kiss.

He is apparently waiting for her to take the lead, and she does so gladly, pushing his arms out of blazer and loosening his tie enough to pull it over his head. She undoes his shirt enough to spread her palms on his bare, warm chest. In the new space this leaves around his neck, she nuzzles in, teasing.

Later on, when she thinks back to this moment, she thinks it was the smell that did it.

Somewhere between his jaw and his collarbone she smells _him_ , a scent deeper than cologne or shower gel or whatever wafts she has had previously.

He smells of seawater and something clean, like laundry. Deeper still, muted and quiet, the scent of engine heat and burnt metal. The taste somehow leaks into her mouth, and she lets out an involuntary gasp. The feeling of his body, pressed against hers, the hair her fingers tangle roughly in, dims away.

She is here, but she is not. She is three centuries younger and watching English ships dock companies of armed merchants in her harbours as she finds she can do nothing but watch. She is two centuries younger and watching her people starve whilst _he_ watches, the taste of indigo and tea and seawater bleaching her mouth even as she aches with hunger. She is only a hundred years younger, and watches her people split, stitched back together, sent to war, sent to war again and split again, and she feels like vomiting bullets, choking as she is on burning steel and the engines of tanks –

India retches.

People change, but bodies don’t.

The body under her moves, flips, so she is distantly aware of being lowered onto something soft.

India feels herself convulse. She retches again. She can taste blood and metal and roads and the sea and she is drowning in it and why is she letting this happen and why is _he_ here and

“India?” from a great distance she hears _his_ voice, but neither the sound nor what he says do anything to help. The whole world calls her by the name _he_ chose.

She feels hands brush her bare shoulders, pull her gently up to a sitting position. “India?” he says again, and the sound is much closer. She realises her eyes are screwed tight shut and forces them open. She sees his face, close at hand and looking at hers, and starts back, almost retching again.

“Get away from me,” she snarls.

His face disappears, and she can hear sharp sucks of air in the room echo in her ears. It takes her another few seconds to realise that this is the sound of her breathing. It stops abruptly when she does.

England reappears at her side, shirt done all the way back up again. He kneels on the floor beside the bed, where she is sitting on the edge. His face is level with her waist, and he touches her knee lightly.

All the breath has been squashed flat from her lungs and she can draw no more. Something leaden holds them down. She feels sick, as if she has sprinted through time and space.

“India, what’s the matter?” England’s voice is low and concerned and the words mash together disjointedly and jar her mind.

She irons her eyes with her fingers until coloured stars pop behind them. When she opens them again and the stars fade slowly into the dark room, she is startled to find that she is where she was five minutes ago almost exactly – the quiet room and its darkened furniture the same, and England crouching beside her. It makes no sense, when her body aches as if she has travelled miles.

England has produced a glass of water from somewhere. “Drink some water,” he says softly, passing it up to her, The glass is cold and shocks her shaking fingers. She complies, choking down sips (what has she ever been able to do other than comply with what _he_ says?)

England doesn’t speak again until she gulps the whole thing down noisily, and he has wordlessly held out his hand for the glass.

“India, are you okay?” and somehow, his soft face, his eyes wide and brow frowning in concern, his kneeling by her feet, fills her with an icy anger. To her intense shame, tears spring to her eyes.

England face softens even further at this and he gets up to sit beside her, “India, what’s wrong?” he asks urgently and quietly, brushing her hand, and it sends an angry wave through her vision again.

“Get away from me,” she snarls again. She wants to leave, run –

“What did you think – how could you think we would..?” she trails off in fury – but she is in his house, in his land and she can do no ordering and it was she who asked, she who kissed him and brought him up here –

She gets to her feet and avoids stumbling as the room spins a little.

England jumps up at this, but thankfully stays back. “No, wait, stay here,” but she shakes her head blindly.

“Look, I’ll leave you alone, don’t worry – please, just sit down.”

She does not listen, and remains rooted where she is, unwilling, thinking – but where could she go tonight that is not his?

When she does nothing, England says, “Please, sit down. I’m sorry, I…” but he refrains from touching her and keeps a careful distance even as he trails off, she notices thankfully.

Eventually, he backs away, picks up the blazer and tie still strewn across her bed, and backs towards the door. His face is gentle and unreadable. “I’ll leave you alone, India, I’ll stay away. Please just get some rest. In the morning, I’ll take you wherever you want to go, I promise. And if you need anything tonight, please tell me and I’ll bring it to you. I promise that too.”

He backs out of the room, and pulls the door to softly – a chink of light from the outside enters the dark room, but no more.

India sits back down on the bed, breathing hard. She does not know how much time passes until her muscles have lost enough tension for her to lie back down on the bed, but she feels them ache as she lowers herself.

She feels thoroughly exhausted. As she lies there waiting for some sense of equilibrium to find her, the beginnings of shame seem to also trickle from somewhere behind her ears, until she wishes she could sleep just to numb it.

She does not know what happened tonight. She does not know how one can start a day in so much control and lose it all by nightfall. She does not know if she ever wants to see England again – she thinks of him and is filled to the brim with an odd mixture of revulsion and sadness and desire. People as old and as resilient as her, she tells herself disgustedly, were not stupid enough to try the rash quick fix she has just tried.

In a few minutes every lingering happy feeling of today is soured away by shame and disgust. Whether it is for trying to have sex with England, or not being able to have sex with England, she does not know. Maybe bodies didn’t change, and people did. But she can’t think for the life of her which of the two would have been more freeing, would have been a greater sign of her growing power.

The senseless sadness that has pricked at her envelopes her, but it’s like she expands, expands like her heart full of ghosts, so she can hold every drop of sadness alongside all of her shame and disgust. The bed feels emptier than it ever did last night. She thinks of all of those happy, easy people she met today, and thinks of them lying peacefully in the arms of their spouses. How could they feel anything but peace, when they would never see their future in the man who bears so many painful echoes of their past, like she did?

She does not know when she finally falls asleep, but it is after the birds outside her window have started singing again, pushing their young ones off the nest in a desperate bid to make the terrified creatures fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. 
> 
> Just a few notes: when India says that England chose her name, I'm aware that the name 'India' is much older than the British Raj, but she means that the choice to use this name of hers by the British Raj, over her other ones, has made it her name internationally. I also don't mean that India has specific bad memories of their having sex here, but associated terrible memories of England more generally.


	3. Casting the Anchor

India finally gets up around noon, after shutting her eyes against the pillow in several determined fights against consciousness whenever it threatened to engulf her. She finally gives up when her brain, in a moment of weakness against itself, touches on memories of yesterday and they flood back. 

Her sari is starched with sweat and creased in odd places. She discards it roughly and walks over to window, careful to breathe through her mouth until it is open. She is sure there is no hint of England left in the room last night, but it would not do to lose control like that again. She breathes in deep lungfuls of clean summer air pregnant with the promise of afternoon heat.

Sleeping has helped to numb the utter shock of last night a good deal, but she feels no closer to peace, or an answer to the questions that haunt her after she cast England from the room.

Thinking of England brings the realisation that they should have left for their second day at Henley hours ago. This brings a second, small stab of guilt, but she doubts it will have preoccupied England much. He, like her, will probably have other things to think about after last night.

Without warning, a hot lash of anger at herself strikes, and her hands ball into fists of their own accord. It is accompanied with a mute, deeper horror at her own behaviour.

To have broken down so entirely – well, even if she no longer knows whether strength and victory is to be found in taking England for herself or in casting him away, she knows there is neither strength nor victory to be found in _that_. And even before, why had this strange loneliness in the midst of England’s life taken hold of her so strongly? Why had it hurt that she and England suddenly felt so far from enough? It is even more nonsensical given that scarce hours later, she could not even bear his touch. India is decidedly neither masochistic nor sadistic (it is why she and China make better allies than lovers, he had once told her, in a bed of silk and his grape wine) – and she knows the two ways she felt last night cannot belong together.

Perhaps, under the horror, there is a little humiliation as well. India _likes_ sex. For her, it is enjoyable, and companionable and exciting, and whilst she has never been flamboyantly open about that, she has never cringed away from it either in the way England had at the height of Victoria’s reign (England, England, _England_ , when had he become her reference, her yardstick for everything?). How could she have failed to conquer someone last night who was still toddling over twigs when she was uniting entire continents of religions, when her men were spreading through Central Asia and when Greece, at the height of his glory, was begging her for more?

She cannot allow any more moments of weakness. She cannot hide away in his room, in his house, in his land. She does not know what they will do now, but she must go and face it regardless.

And she _desperately_ needs tea.

It is perhaps this most final and trivial of desires that pushes her to act. She dresses in a simple kameez and pads down to the kitchen. The landing is silent and so is the hallway. She is scouts the kitchen discreetly, and other than a half-empty bottle of cheap wine on the island and a mess of blankets on the longest sofa, the room is silent and familiar. She tiptoes in anyway, bypassing the kettle. She has nothing against the device, and has used it for many an early morning, pre-work drink. Nonetheless, she thinks things are bad enough for proper, homemade tea.

She wonders if England has bought loose leaf or spices yet, and hunts about cupboards. She hasn’t looked far when she opens one, empty save for a pack of loose leaf Darjeeling, cardamom, cinnamon and ginger. They are packed neatly into a small saucepan with a strainer, so it is clear for what and whom he has left them there. Small mercies.

The sound of cool tap water rushing into the pan echoes in the silent kitchen, and India drops it into the sink with an even louder clatter when the mess of blankets on the sofa behind her stirs at the sound.

England’s face is drawn and puffy-eyed as he emerges from his cocoon. He looks about as bad as she feels, though she doesn’t know for sure: she doesn’t meet his gaze, fighting the cowardly urge to slink back upstairs as he looks around blearily, confused as to what woke him.

He catches sight of her at last, removing that happy option, and for a few seconds he only seems to stare as she gazes intently at the wooden flooring between them. She feels hot humiliation splash onto her cheeks, so she turns studiously back to the saucepan, which is causing a small flood in the sink, and fussily goes about rectifying things.

The silence crackles terribly, and she waits for him to break it. He does not.

She wonders what he could possibly be waiting for as she sets the saucepan on the stove and throws tea leaves into it, impatiently wiping the wetness from her eyes at an angle she hopes he cannot see.

She has begun to shakily throw in spices before he finally speaks.

“India, are you okay?”

She nods mutely, fiddling with the heat.

“I – I’m sorry about last night. Perhaps I should have stayed, but it looked like I was being the opposite of helpful…”

She ignores him as she pokes at the browning concoction in the pan with a spoon. A conversation with England has to happen at some point, but why he had to camp out in the kitchen instead of his perfectly good bedroom so she could not steel herself with _one_ cup of tea in peace beforehand – it is laughable, and she feels her throat stop up painfully at this thought.

England seems to be waiting for her to reply – but what can she say to that? It is she who invited him in and cast him out, she who he will look to, to tell him what their boundaries are now and what use would his apologies be when they should not be for last night but for her people and her past, who are both dead whilst she is alive –

England tries again: “Do you want to go home?” and his voice is unbearably gentle.

Home? No, India does not want to be taken to the airport to run away with her tail between her legs when she already feels mortified. Her throat still feels choked however, so to speak would be to betray further weakness. She settles for swallowing noisily as she shakes her head.

Another beat, and then: “Please – please, say something, India.”

What is she to say? India throws in another dash of cinnamon to her tea and sets about looking for a mug. She can feel him waiting behind her, so when her throat feels safe enough to speak, she forces herself to look at him and say, “Do you want some tea?”, gesturing at the saucepan. Her voice is raspy sore, but sounds steady.

They look at each other for a long moment after that, and laugh shakily as one.

She feels her laugher chip at some corner of weak hysteria inside her, so she averts her gaze back to her tea, toying with the strainer whilst it steeps. India has not been so quiet, avoided his eyes so much, since he accompanied his merchants on a spice ship, bringing roses and polite courtesy for her over four centuries ago. The thought snaps her head up a little, and warms her torso.

She looks back at him, keeping his careful distance, and a tug in her chest makes her stretch out her hand out to him.

He looks immensely relieved, but wary of making any physical contact. Eventually, a greater wariness of denying her seems to win out, and he closes the distance slowly to grasp her fingers in his own. India’s body does not seem to mind this, so she closes the grip and leaves their hands intertwined by her side, stirring her tea around a few final times one-handedly, and setting the strainer on a cup.

“I’m sorry we’re not at Henley,” India settles for saying, clearing her throat. It is something to amend, and she knows how attached he is to his timetables. Mostly, it is easier to address this than any other issue of substance. He hasn’t said, but she feels tea would do him good too, so she hunts for a second mug to stand beside her own.

This seems to unlock something in him. “As if Henley or any of that matters at all, India,” he huffs in astonishment, his breath tickling strands of her hair. She feels him cautiously take the hand he is still holding and place his other on top of it. “I’m so sorry I upset you like that last night. I understand if you want to leave. There are a couple of flights leaving today. You can pick whichever you want, and I’ll book it and drive you to Heathrow.”

India takes her hand away from both of his to steady the strainer as she pours hot tea into the two mugs. “Do you want me to leave?” she asks mildly, eyes on her work.

“Of course not,” says England, leaning against the counter agitatedly. “But – but being with me makes you unhappy, doesn’t it?” his voice sounds like his eyes will be gentle, but she doesn’t meet them as she hands him his mug.

“You didn’t make me unhappy last night,” India says shortly, turning to lean against the counter and take a scalding sip. The scent of wafting spice is old and calming. She breathes deeply.

“Was it something we did?” England asks tentatively. When India doesn’t reply, he pushes on, “I – if that sort of thing feels uncomfortable, India, I’m sorry. It’s not easy to have – well, things like that linger a long time after they happen. Talking helps, you know, with that stuff. At least – at least, I’ve found it helps to talk about it. I know I’m not the best at this stuff, but I’ll always listen if you want to talk about something.”

He is babbling, and India has a shrewd suspicion of what he is getting at. Even shrewder, his own admission of experience, shelved between his other sentences. India has known enough of Rome, and heard enough of his ways with young children, to think she knows what he means. It is this ready admission, in his bid to comfort her, of something he must surely never admit, that pushes her to speech again.

“No,” she says quickly, “no it’s – it’s nothing like that.”

“What is it, then?”

India takes a long, fortifying draught of tea. “You didn’t make me unhappy last night. But you’ve made me unhappy before. I haven’t been as close to you as I was last night in a while. It made me remember things.”

England is silent for a long time after this, and when she finally looks up him, he is looking at the floor, his face terrible.

She brushes her thumb along his cheek, “There’s nothing you can do about that now,” she reminds him.

He visibly shakes himself. “No, you’re right. There isn’t,” he wrenches his gaze off the floor and onto her face, “And I should never have expected you to put so much behind us. It was selfish of me to even hope, and all it’s done is hurt you more. Thank you, really, for trying. But I’ll be sensible now. I’ll keep away and learn my lessons and whatever else you think I should do,” he tells her fervently.

India is startled. “What do you mean?”

It is his turn to look confused, “I can’t change what I’ve done, and I bring back bad memories that cause you pain,” he says quietly, “How could we ever carry on doing what we’re doing now?”

This to India feels too much like she has gifted England another whip so he can engage in the self-flagellation and hand-wringing he enjoys so much. Moreover, to follow through feels like a scam altogether; a promise for better that feels hollow. She thinks of going home alone and staying there. She thinks of no more visits, no more conversation beyond work emails and awkward nods at conferences. It makes her chest hurt.

“I’m not asking that we give up,” she says quickly. “I need time to think. But that was always the point of all of this, wasn’t it? To give us time to think. That’s what we said in your flat back in February.”

England appears to chew his words carefully: “Wasn’t last night quite a lot of food for thought?”

India shrugs. “I’ve never avoided anyone in my life. I’m not about to start now – “ he looks as if he wants to protest, to assure her she won’t be the one doing the avoiding, but she quells him with a hand, “Not even you are going to frighten me away from doing what I want, England,” she says firmly.

“And what do you want?” he mumbles.

India shrugs again. “I don’t know. We’ll see. _I’ll_ see. When I know, I’ll tell you. And you’ll follow along,” she adds, smiling, knowing that this wasn’t so much a command as a statement of fact. It strikes her nonetheless, that such a dynamic, indeed, the dynamic they have followed for the last year and a half, hardly seems sustainable.

She pushes it out of her mind – there were choices that had to be made before England living on puppet strings needed addressing. She would face each issue in turn. “Wash these up, will you? I really need a shower.” She pushes her empty mug into England’s hands and reaches up to ruffle his hair. She catches the small smile she elicits as she leaves.

***

The shower is hot and sharp and healing on her tense muscles. She is more indulgent than she normally would be with the water, standing for minutes, head arched up to the blistering heat, eyes closed. She emerges in a cloak of steam and sits on her bed, naked other than a towel for a long time, watching the empty nest outside her window vacantly. It feels good to feel blank.

Eventually, she gets cold enough to dress again, and advances downstairs cautiously. She is glad that she has knocked things out with England, but she is not sure how much of his continued hovering worry she can take today.

Remarkably, he seems to sense this. She finds him in the kitchen, car keys, house keys and satchel bag laid out in front of him, waiting expectantly. He speaks as soon as she is within earshot, as if making sure she doesn’t need to approach: “Listen, it turns out I’ve actually got some surveys to set up for the electoral data stuff here. I was thinking I may as well head over and do it all today – you know, give you some space. I’ll leave you the keys so if you want a walk or a drive or something, feel free. I’ll do the shopping before I get in in the evening too, so text me if you want anything.”

India feels a sudden rush of affection for him.

However, he needn’t pretend to work, she reasoned, even if he was giving her space. “Will people be around on a Sunday?” she asks shrewdly.

England shrugs. “People at the University seem to work weekends and slack off on weekdays. Besides, I can get a lot of this stuff done on my own anyway, and I’ve got access to the department. I can let myself in and log in.”

Still, India feels it would be harsh to get rid of him so quickly. “I don’t want to kick you out of your own house, England.”

England shakes his head quickly, “Don’t be silly, you’re not. Anyway, if I get this stuff done now, I’ve got the rest of the week free for you.”

India, feeling she has protested adequately, nods gratefully.

Fifteen minutes later, he has left.

She slumps back on the sofa he slept on, amidst his blankets, and lets out a long sigh.

***

Half an hour later, she is outside and walking away from the city. Susan had told her yesterday of a meadow not far from England’s house, and insisted that they visit. The name had escaped her mind, but the description hadn’t. There were apparently wild horses, unploughed meadowland and a scoping river. India feels that she would eminently prefer all of these to people today, and to staying inside his house brooding over him whilst he is not there. Apparently, the meadow was so near that all India had to do was keep west along the roads to the west of theirs.

India is somewhat sceptical that such scarce directions can take her to a part of Oxford she hasn’t even heard of yet, let alone been to, but sure enough after a ten minute walk, she finds herself in a great, flat expanse of grass and wildflower. The meadow stretches as far as she can see, so it feels as if the palm of earth has been pushed up to graze the mild skyline where it is particularly low-hanging. She can hardly believe such a humble, wild oasis has been so close to the Victorian suburbia she has been occupying.

The meadow is far from empty, but it is vast and its crowds dot densely about the river at its edge, where people are jumping in from bridges for respite from the summer heat. It is easy for India to settle, a clear mile from the nearest person, by a patch of yellow gorse and bank of cornflowers that hide her from view on either side. 

Though it is not her earth that bears her, she feels a sense of equilibrium in the meadow’s obvious peace. She rests her head in the fragrant grass and lets the sun warm her closed eyelids.

However, even such external tranquillity cannot mask the inner turmoil she must shift through. England is right, despite what she said, that they cannot really go back to the path they’ve been treading. This year and a half of careful experiment has run its course, and she knows what she knows.

Here, alone with her thoughts, letting the deep thrum of a land that is not hers wash over her, it seems as if she has always known. China had had a theory about that, thousands of years before they had known the true size of the world and just how many of their kind could live long lives together on it, that they could make their lands more accepting, more protective of each other by treating each other that way. The centuries that have since elapsed have long proved otherwise; they are entirely useless appendages to their people and their land – feeling, loving, grieving, but incapable of steering or moulding. Susan had told her yesterday that the meadow was ancient land; that it has remained for freemen and their cattle, the river flooding its plain for the winter and leaving the summer grass succulent every year for almost half as long as England has been alive. Perhaps this is why she can feel the deep currents of history and identity under her so prominently, more so than she remembers ever feeling in England’s land.

Or perhaps she feels it so prominently because she knows the decision she is making; has already made. Lying here, she feels herself accept it. She thinks of England’s face at airports, the walks they take in each other’s parks and the talks that span hours into the night on the phone until one of their mobiles die. She recalls the memory of his scent last night, and waves of nausea lap at her. She thinks of her strange loneliness yesterday, and of how a thousand years ago, she told China that surely their deaths must be nigh, for no-one could be this exhausted for this long. She breathes out, long and quiet, and knows that, like it or not, she knows what she will do now.

She gets up and walks home.

***

She texts England later that afternoon, telling him that she is going shopping. She finds the nearest Tesco on her phone, and drives there using Google Maps. She is technically not insured to drive England’s car, but the trip is mercifully short, and she thinks that he for once will not mind a rule being broken. She buys rice and chicken and vegetables and wanders the aisles various plucking spices with a practiced hand.

At home, she takes comfort from the familiar motions of cooking; the soothing sound of a knife on a chopping board and the sizzle of frying vegetable. She tastes and stirs and adds, singing quietly to herself. She feels the same peace she did in the meadow, turning lumps of chicken in her hands to rub oil in as she turns her decision over and over in her mind.

She hears the front door open just as the sun is setting low over the back garden and she is scraping curry into a serving bowl. She hears England shuffle about the doorway and lock the door before he emerges before her.

“Something smells good,” he smiles, abandoning his satchel on an armchair. “Thanks for dinner – I really wasn’t expecting you to cook,” the concerned look he gives her, as if she has recently recovered from a serious illness, irks her somewhat.

She ignores it as she splits the rice between two plates, and takes them to the kitchen island with the curry. “I won’t spontaneously combust if you come near me, you know,” she tells him, and gets a wan smile in return. He does not come any closer.

She sighs as she fetches water and cutlery for him. He has played follow-the-leader for so long that she suspects he waiting for clearer instructions than this morning before he will change his behaviour. If anything, this reinforces all she has decided.

She asks him over dinner about his work. He tells her about the data modelling he has learnt for the project, and how he wishes that his mathematical instincts had not been formed at the time of Newton’s _Principia_ so he could pick up new things quicker. She gathers that he exists as a barometer of sorts for them, to indicate what aspect of public mood feels like it is shifting so they know which phenomena to capture, and what data is worth collecting. He tells her that dinner is delicious.

He tells her to sit down and that he’ll do the washing up. She ignores him and joins him to dry. As they stack the last of the dishes away she turns to him and rubs his arm in a tired sort of way.

“Can we get an early night? I don’t think either of us slept very well last night.”

England agrees readily enough, but she does not let go of his arm.

“Can I stay with you, tonight?”, she presses. It is the best way to tell him what she has decided.

He is instantly wary. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he admits.

India looks at him levelly. “Do you not want me to?”

England rubs his temples. “You know that’s not what I mean, India.” He unhooks her hand from around his arm a little roughly and goes towards his solace, the kettle.

In a way, it is nice to see him act on his frustrations. He has so rarely let out anything but earnest gentlemanliness around her these last few months. It grates after a while.

She goes to him and stand between him and the kettle, laying her hands on the tops of his arms. “I want to stay with you tonight,” she presses, “I don’t want to try anything, just – just to sleep in the same bed. I want to get used to you. And I need to talk to you.”

“Talk to me now.”

“Please, England?”

He rubs his temples again and sighs, by way of answering. How aggravating it must be, she thinks, to be in a quasi-relationship with few principles other than ‘slow and steady’ and ‘give India what she wants’, and still have them conflict. Still, that his half of what they are doing can be distilled so easily to two such commandments conjures a faint wrinkle of disgust in her. She is sure she could not have kept this up so long, had their roles been reversed. All the more reason to change things now, and change them permanently, she thinks.

“England, I know I’ll be fine. I’ll just be lying next to you.” When he doesn’t say anything, she reminds him, “I don’t like being mollycoddled any more than you do,” more severely.

“You don’t have to prove any – “

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” she cuts him off impatiently, “I _want_ to do this.” She lays a hand flat on his chest and kisses his nose, careful to hold her breath. “We can’t keep sidestepping around each other forever,” she tells him more gently.

England swallows, and nods at last. “You’ll tell me straight away if you feel uncomfortable?”

“Of course.”

***

She flits by her room to brush her teeth and change into clothes to sleep in. He is taking his sweet time in the bathroom, so she settles under his covers. A cautious sniff of the bedclothes – they are pleasantly neutral and faintly musty. The bed is a little bigger than hers, and the window looks out onto the street and over the distant city. It does not capture the setting sun like hers does, so she cannot make out the distant spires she knows she ought to see through the early twilight.

England emerges eventually, hair a little tousled, and climbs in cautiously.

“You’ll roll off in the middle of the night if that’s the amount of space you plan on taking up,” she teases him. He edges closer.

She turns to him. It is a double bed, and there is room for both intimacy and space. India does not feel particularly worried; she feels the peace and control she so violently lost last night inside her now. In any case, she does not intend to allow herself to continue to be broken down by memory. Tracing meaningless patterns on his chest, she says, “I’ve been thinking more about what we talked about today.”

When he says nothing, she continues, “I think you’re right. We can’t really carry on like this,” and from the stricken look on his face, she knows straight away that he thinks she has climbed into his bed to break up with him.

She is a little miffed by the insinuation. Surely he knows that she does not, on principle, push knives in harder than they need to be pushed? Still, she can already see sea-storms of worry in his eyes and he is no doubt dreaming up all sorts of imaginary problems already, so she ploughs on.

“Yesterday, surrounded by your friends, I realised just how much we’ve been drifting along. And I know that was our express purpose, to be careful, to see where this leads us. But I think yesterday made me realise how much more I want than that.”

England is still watching her, so she takes her eyes off his chest and places them squarely on his. “I want to love you properly, England,” she says deliberately, and his eyes look like something in his body has skipped a beat.

“And I want you to love me properly,” she pushes on, “I want us to stop acting as if everything is off-limits to us until I say it’s not. I know why we did it, and I’m glad we did things the way we did, but now I know what I want. I realised yesterday that I don’t like having you so close and still not really having you properly at all. I want you to _belong to_ _me_. I found out later yesterday that that won’t be plain sailing in lots of practical ways, and in the months before this – and maybe last night, a little bit – I thought that things with such bad beginnings couldn’t possibly have good endings.” She pauses for breath.

“And what do you think now?” England asks quickly.

India considers this, and why her mind has changed. “I think I’ve lived far too long to see beginnings and endings anymore, England,” she settles for saying, and she is surprised how tired her own voice sounds, “I think there is before, and now, and after. Sometimes, I think I see memories more than people. But to let myself do that is to dishonour them both. I have to keep on. I like what you bring to my life and I want to hold that closer. I like what you like in me and I want to be the person you see, because you’ve seen so little of the things I don’t want people to see. Maybe at times I also like feeling like I’ve leashed a ghost from the past.”

India doesn’t so much end as run out of things to say. She is far too old for romantic declarations, and half way to embarrassed already, and this was meant to be an explanation mostly anyway.

“So?”, she urges, jabbing him gently in the chest when he doesn’t respond, “what do you say? Do you love me?”

England raises a mildly affronted eyebrow at that. “I would have thought that was pretty bloody obvious, India.”

They look at each other again, and laugh.

“You can’t tell me you’ve really enjoyed the last year and a half?” India demands, when they are serious again, “waiting for me to signal somehow that I was okay with every damn thing you did before you did it? You never really told me when things went wrong, or if you were ever you upset. Most of the time you let me talk, or persuaded me, rather. Didn’t that get lonely?” She has been explicitly aware of what England has been trying to do for much less time than he, and she already hates it.

England shrugs. “It’s difficult to say,” he says finally, “there’s definitely been good moments. I’ve spent a lot more time with you than I would have before, and time with you is always good. And I’ve had to be oh-so careful because of my own mistakes in the end. That’s what I kept telling myself when it got frustrating.”

India waits for more, so he obliges. “It’s not been fun holding back so much, but I don’t think I’ve done that any less than you, really.”

India considers this, and finds she can’t really deny it. They began by dissecting the past, when England first came to apologise, and when they finished they kept all their dinners and park walks to the topic of the present. No wonder she felt lonely, spending so much time and careful energy building something half-way.

England interrupts her thoughts. “So, we’re doing this?”

India grins back at him. “We’re doing this.”

She pauses, and then adds, “it’ll probably be easier for both of our sakes’ if we carry on not shouting about it like we did before,” and England nods seriously, “but I want to do it properly. I want to call you when I’m angry so you can tell me I’m about to start an unnecessary international incident. And I want you to stop waiting about for my implicit instructions and act as you want. I’ll probably yell at you either way.”

England turns onto his back on his pillow and laughs. “Wow,” he says, and turns and smiles at her.

“Wow,” India agrees seriously, and twists to look up at the ceiling.

After a minute, she stifles a huge yawn and turns back to him. “Now, if you don’t mind, I did actually sleep horribly last night, and you’re taking me all around Oxford tomorrow, so I’m going to go to sleep now.”

She turns her back on him and presses herself lightly to his front. Groping behind her, she finds his arm and pulls it over her like she would a blanket. She is mercifully free of his scent, and this is as cuddly as she is willing to be outside of actual sex in bed, considering her normal, comfortable starfish position.

“Goodnight, India,” she can hear hints of incredulous laughter in England’s voice.

“Goodnight, England.”

She presses a kiss to the hand she is holding over her. Discreetly, she inhales at the wrist. Nothing. Her battle over her memories is for herself to conquer, and if she tells England, it will be after she has lain with him to her satisfaction, and made her bed a little less lonely.

“India?”

“Mhm?” she says sleepily.

“Does the way I smell bother you?”

Well, _damn_. Perhaps there _are_ things to miss about him seventy years ago, when he was so much more obtuse.

“Why do you ask?” she deflects, turning back to him.

“Well, last night, it wasn’t ‘til you sort of nuzzled into my neck that you got upset. And you’ve been holding your breath when I’m close to you all day. And well, um. You just sniffed my wrist,” he finishes apologetically, as if _he_ has been sniffing at her joints.

India decides that to lie directly would be to immediately contradict the relationship she herself has just stipulated. “It brought back memories last night. Quite vividly,” she admits, “I’m not sure why. It’s an odd issue to have given that all of you is the problem, not the way you smell,” she smirks back at him, carefully light.

“I suppose you’ve been desensitised to me in other ways,” he muses seriously.

“Mhm,” she says intelligently. Sleep is pulling at her eyelids, and frankly, she doesn’t want England solving her problems for her, even now they are together.

“Maybe if I took more showers?” he asks, and the look on his face when she turns to look at him is to comically earnest that she bursts out laughing.

“England,” when she giggles herself back to sobriety at last, “England, I don’t think your hygiene is the issue. It’s how you smell. _You’re_ the issue,” she adds, a little more seriously.

“I suppose I am,” says England softly.

India pokes him lovingly in the cheek. “What did I just say? You’re not running around doing what you think I want anymore. It’s my problem. I’m going to fix it. If I don’t, I will let you know and then we’ll fix it together, okay?”

England grimaces in consent.

India rolls her eyes fondly and turns back away from him, pushing her back into him a little more. The hand she was sniffing settles securely around her stomach, as if it belongs there.

It has been a long while since she has tried to fall asleep with someone else’s body around her without the soporific flush of sex, so she fully anticipates that she will lie there for ages, England’s arm growing heavier and more awkward, until he is asleep and she can push it off without hurting his feelings.

As it turns out, she succumbs to sleep before she can finish the thought.


	4. Docking at Harbour

The heatwave holds as they walk through Oxford over the next five days arm-in-arm.

On Monday, England leads her down cobbled streets and they duck into the ancient doorways of colleges, framed in ivy and history, and walk around concentric quadrangles. England tells her the stories of how they came to be, and of the people whose footsteps echoed so loudly through these stone passageways and his history books, and if he looks hard enough, echo still. He often shakes himself out of these reveries nervously and masks it with a show of would-be chivalrous tour-guiding. Before the day is out she has reminded him half a dozen times that, after their discussion last night, he need not be anything he isn’t for her anymore. It is frustrating to see how much of a habit he has developed, trying to wait on her hand and foot this past year and a half, and perhaps by his fifth or sixth reminder some of her irritation shows on her face, because the all-too-ready apology springs to his lips repeatedly and, though he is careful to look away, she can see his face crumple in unconscious hurt. Somehow the first annoys her more and yet the second pulls at something deep enough inside her that she doesn’t pursue it.

So she apologises herself, if only to even up their ridiculously lopsided tally: “Sorry. I forget that you believe in my patience far more than it deserves,” she concedes.

He shakes his head decidedly at this, “You’re incredibly patient with me,” he tells her, “You’re still here.”

She doesn’t know how that makes her feel, so she says nothing.

On Tuesday, somehow the sun’s rays seem to have swelled overnight so they smother everything with dry, breathy heat. England soldiers on for the second day of his carefully planned tour for about half an hour, wilting quietly, before he looks back at her and somehow realises she is not faring much better than he is. He deftly switches up days in his meticulous itinerary, and they gladly escape the heat of the day in old university libraries like hushed cathedrals and palaces. Much of this city is older than the age in which she and England met, and the stories and ghosts in here are if anything more numerous. They revel quietly together in the presence of thousands of books, breathing them in, not speaking. She knows at least this for sure, that England has always loved words as much as she has. It is peaceful to be in such monuments with someone who splits from her without a word as they go to examine different shelves in utterly complete understanding.

Later, he takes her to where the real treasures are hidden, deep underground where perhaps none but the nosiest and most adventurous of students and tutors have found. The librarians accept his documentation and her without too much question, and she is allowed to examine, with bated breath, books older than half of their immortal peers, salvaged and tended to delicately from Roman tombs and before. England’s face is oddly closed, but he is as entranced as she is by the smell of mildew and the past.

On Wednesday the temperatures climb down to more pleasant integers, and dine with Vishnu and Arnold in the latter’s private rooms above the Senior Common Room at University College. The elaborate candles and the old wood panelling are decidedly more than she needs, but England’s happiness that she is here and holding his hand and stroking his knee opposite two such dear human friends is infectious. Perhaps it is the copious amounts of wine that Arnold persuades into them all (not that England needed much persuasion), but the loneliness she last felt in this couple’s presence is already more a memory than reality. It is not entirely gone, but somehow their talk of democracy and changing mores and how to juxtapose the future with the past take up most of her attention. The three of them are so excited to hear her academic thoughts that she indulges more than she should on the after-dinner port, and lets herself smile at England’s jokes and listen to his thoughts and stokes the growing softness she feels in her core at the sight of his earnest face. Afterwards at midnight, they walk home stumbling slightly, casting deep shadows under orange streetlights illuminating vast shadows of old behemoths of knowledge and limestone statues.

England, seized by some impulse she does not see, takes her hands and kisses her deeply under worn, grand college buildings. She notes the surprise and laughter in her own lips as she returns the sentiment.

On Thursday, he leads her onto a punt, a narrow wooden boat where she settles amongst scratchy cushions as he takes up the thin wooden pole to guide them. She knows that he has always been more in his element on water than on land, but it warms her somewhat to see the sudden depth in his eyes as he manoeuvres skilfully through boating day-trippers, weeds and wizen tree-roots with barely a glance. They drift past impossibly green pasture land that she would never have believed this city of limestone and history capable of. They head steadily north on the Isis, the ancient local name for the Thames, and England accordingly tells her of his days before merchant ships and gunpowder and democracy. It feels good to talk of their pasts in a way that reminds her how much more they each are than the other.

He has packed a picnic, and they feast under the shade of an ancient willow dropping into the water, shielding them from the haughty confidence of the university buildings beyond. He kisses her again, fleetingly, before he steers them home faster than possible with mere flicks of his wrist.

On Friday, he walks her to a park south and east of the city, its vast, undulating curves of green stretching as far as she can see. They climb the hill at its south-eastern end, and she looks out onto the hazy city of dreaming spires, where her mathematicians had shown his people things they’d never known; where her sons had begun to teach his the true breadth and depth of the world.

On Saturday, they clean the house, straightening bedsheets and throwing together all their leftover food into some concoction she dreams up. It tastes better than she thinks it would. They are a few hours ahead of schedule, thanks to his meticulousness, so she tells him about Susan’s meadow that she visited last week.

A warm July sunset finds them lying, arm in arm, in the tepid grass of the meadow – _Port Meadow_ , he tells her it is called, and she memorises it for the future – as she was a week before. Somehow their gentle, unplanned talk leads her to reminding him that, whilst she has slept in his bed beside him all week, there is still one barrier left to surmount.

England, it transpires, has at last taken her advice and started being able to refuse her. “We don’t have to, you know, India,” he reminds her, “This week has been incredible, and the last thing I want to do it to risk ruining that.”

“But surely you didn’t plan for this relationship to be some sort of holy celibate one?” she teases, plucking at the blades of the grass that surge between her fingertips on the meadow. She keeps her tone light, but in spite of their week together she has not been able to take leave of the odd sense of relative weakness that last Saturday has engendered in the back of her mind. It is uneven, and India does not like uneven ground.

“That’s not the point.”

“Don’t you want to?”

England winces. “Of course I want to.”

“Well then, let’s try again.” She sits up about the cornflowers, and looks at him directly.

“How can you be sure it won’t bring back the memories it did last time?”

“I need new memories of you to fix that, England,” she tells him. It is also not in her nature to be beaten, truly, by anything, least of all memories. She is all too aware of how powerful their grip is, if one allows them to grip.

England appears to choose his words very carefully, glancing all around the meadow around him; the listless cows and horses, the delighted squeals of young people sluicing themselves in the river, the verdant green towering at the edges of the plain, before he responds.

“Look at me, India,” he says, quite necessarily, as they have been watching each other for a while, “I’m hardly a…you know, I’m not – I’m not…Christ, I don’t even know the word. I’m not a – a _womaniser_ , I suppose.” He spits the word out reluctantly at last, as if unsure of its use, gesturing up and down himself.

India can’t help but snigger at this. “What’s this? Performance anxiety?”

He looks strangely heartened by the laughter and continues, “I’m not sure. I – I love you. Truly. I suppose neither of us can deny that one any longer,” he flushes deeply as he says it, nonetheless, and examines a thorny weed growing by his right boot intently, “So it just feels like something very significant – something to get right. Especially when I know that I bring back so many bad memories,” he finishes quietly, brushing a finger across the thorns of the weed, though she knows it can’t have possibly held his attention this long.

“Why wouldn’t you get it right?” she probes gently, “We’ve done this before, you know.”

“That was a long ago,” England says, “And it matters a lot, now. That it goes well, I mean. And you might not think that it did,” he mutters evasively.

“Whatever Robert Clive told you about the Kama Sutra was probably wrong, you know,” she reminds him, snorting. She does not allow herself to read any deeper into what she has said.

England smiles a little, but still does not meet her eyes. “I know.”

“We’ve got to try sometime. And I don’t like being treated like some sort of invalid you need to take care of. If I’m asking you, I know what I’m doing.” she knows that the little severity she leaks into her voice is enough, and in any case, she has _never_ liked elephants in the room.

Sure enough, England nods seriously, “I know, of course. I just – I just don’t want to hurt you, and outside of that, I want you to enjoy it, too.”

She is mildly impressed that he has managed to sustain this blush so long without letting up at all, from what she can see. She hopes he won’t be light-headed when he stands up.

“And enjoy it yourself too, surely?”

“That too,” he allows, but from the way he says it so easily, she imagines that it does not worry him nearly as much.

India does know when he became so reticent. He certainly said nothing like this during the few nights they had together four centuries ago, foreign and reasonably exciting, before they had known each other. And in the intervening centuries he had, if anything, become stupidly sure of himself, even if nothing progressed beyond mutinous conversation and a burgeoning understanding, if not quite respect, between them. She knows that his people by and large now do not mind such encounters in the course of dating someone, and if anything have come to expect this before they commit. Admittedly, she had not been paying much attention to his behaviour last Saturday when she had so foolishly tried to use him to make her feel better. Still, she cannot think of any real explanation beyond the one he gives, that he is nervous and hyper-aware of ruining the fragile happiness they have built.

But this, India reasons, is surely the worry of mortals. “No couple sees stars on their first time together, England,” she reminds him sensibly, “We’ll need to learn how to please each other. We need to start trying so we can learn that.”

England nods slowly, still fixated on his weed. “You might need to be patient with me,” he tells her, “I’m not – you know, like I say, I’m far from being _naturally_ good at things like this. I’m not one of those people.”

“Aren’t you?” India teases gently, thinking it might encourage him more than accepting his terms, “Pray tell, who are _those people_? I don’t know if I’ve met any of them.”

England seems to smile at the weed against his will. “You know what I mean, India. The rest of Europe has always managed sex better than I have.”

“I didn’t know sex was something to manage in Europe. Is it like Parliament, do you think? Do you need to wear a suit and shout?”

England laughs properly, again against his will. India finds herself enjoying this more than she thought she would, forcing him to be comfortable.

Still, he does not seem to be through all of his concerns: “Well, most of us have probably had the same bad introduction to sex, if I think about it,” he admits, moving his careful focus from the weed to his own hands, and India finds herself shivering in the shadow of Rome and his ways again, even in this golden summer sunset, “but the rest seem to have moved on better than I have. Perhaps I’m just bad at dealing with things,” and he finally smiles up at her, confident at last in his self-deprecation.

“England, if it’s a case of you not being comfortable, of course we won’t do anything. Surely you know I’d never ask you if _that_ was the problem?”

England shakes his head roughly. “I do want to. You know I do. I’m just not – you know. We’ll need some practice to get it right, I reckon.”

India smiles, and somehow can’t help but move up to his patch of grass to kiss him deeply. “I know. Of course we will. That’s how it always is.”

They hold onto each other for several moments, melting deeper into each other in the deep grass of the meadow, before she raises an eyebrow at him and they wordlessly agree to act on the same urge. They hold hands walking back, grinning awkwardly at each other. When they reach England’s house and he unlocks the door, India kisses him deeply again, and tries to ignore any déjà vu.

They go upstairs. She lays him on his bed and moves against him, trying to push down the faint stirrings of her own anxiety that she has been able to ignore easily thus far in the face of his. But now they are here, she allows herself to dawdle, hesitating against his skin, breathing through her mouth. She will allow herself to be cowed once, but to not conquer a second time is beneath her expectations for herself. And yet, how could she do the same thing twice without expecting the same results?

Perhaps her hesitation is noticeable, because from underneath her, he squeezes her wrist gently and says, “Let me.”

He rolls them over gently, and holds himself above her, at enough of a distance that she feels safe enough to breathe in. His face still holds some of his earlier worries, and for a moment they look at each other hesitantly. It feels more intimate than anything India can ever remember being with England, laid bare before each other in their bodies and in their anxieties, holding onto each other, her dark eyes looking unashamedly and baldly into his light ones, and his looking back. Somehow, it makes them laugh together, and the motion clears England’s eyes of their worried creases. They look a second longer, and their newly clear depths are replaced by an odd, soft glint as he takes her in.

He leans in, trailing kisses against the corner of her jaw, carefully away from her breathing air, before moving down lower.

***

Afterwards, India rests her palms on England’s forearms where they are clasped tightly around her waist. His lips are pressed to her hair, slipping loose from its braid, and they are looking about together at the glowing evening light fading slowly outside his window, still warm from each other under the covers.

“Better?” England asks tentatively.

India smirks. “Yes. What gave it away?” the laughter trickles into her voice, and shakes their arms, wound as they are around her torso, “The lack of crying this time round, or the fact that you’re still here?”

England laughs with her as he kisses her hair. “Both.”

She rubs her thumb against his wrist for a few moments, and then asks, “And for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“How was that for you?”

When he doesn’t respond, she half-turns to face him. He looks oddly incredulous.

“You were worried about that, weren’t you? Whether we’d like this?” she pushes.

She feels him shrugging. “I wanted you to enjoy it, yes.”

“Why only me?”

India feels his chest push further into her back as he breathes deeply. He holds it for several seconds, as if not sure which words to shape the air into. “Of course I enjoyed it. I knew I would,” he says at last.

India squirms a little to see him better, but he holds her tight. She has to look out at the gathering twilight outside as he speaks roughly into her hair: “I suppose we’ve come so far this week I shouldn’t hold back from saying things for fear of scaring you away any longer. What we’re doing – this…this relationship, I suppose – means a lot to me. It makes me so happy to be around you. Ridiculously happy. And I’m better around you. As a person. But, I’m not good at relationships – at intimacy, physical or emotional,” he pauses to sigh deeply into her hair, “I was just worried that at some point, like this one, you might find that it’s not enough for you, the way I am.”

India wants to turn in his arms and look at him, but she can practically _feel_ the heat of his blush, and she suspects he has only managed to get these words out because he hasn’t had to look at her, so she restrains herself to knotting her fingers with his at her waist. “I wish you wouldn’t worry so much, England,” she admits, “You know that I tell you what I want and what I don’t want. Sex isn’t any different,” she states baldly, “I _want_ to be here, with you. I _want_ to do all of this, and I’ll want to do it again.”

When he says nothing, she pushes on: “Is it me? Does having sex _with me_ make you nervous? Or is it the idea generally?”

England rests his forehead against the crown of her head. “A little of both,” he admits, so quietly she has to strain herself to hear, “I don’t want to lose you. That makes it harder than if I was sleeping with someone else – someone I didn’t love like I know I love you,” he takes another breath, and continues, “I usually don’t worry about performance though. I think that for a long time I’ve seen sex as something of a mission. Outside of relationships, I go through the motions of what I know men and women enjoy. I can do it well, I know, when I do it clinically. As for enjoying myself, ever since Rome I – well I need to be comfortable with a person before I can enjoy being – being physically intimate with them.”

India feels her breath hitch. He has never admitted it so baldly, though they’ve danced around the topic this week. For a few seconds, she feels a quiet sadness soar within her at how reticent they’ve both been about this; both had to be. Their reasons could not be more different, but the discomfort they have had to wade through to enjoy this together, and probably will have to wade further through together, is deep and present on both sides.

The thought is oddly comforting. It puts paid to the irritation she has tried to remedy within herself for last Saturday. For some reason, she remembers the moment of intense intimacy she felt with him half an hour ago.

They both bear their ongoing battles, and will carry them together.

England seems to be waiting for a response, and he has bared himself so much that she knows he will be mentally cringing, so she cuts his discomfort short, and asks, “Are you comfortable with me?”

She can feel England nodding fervently behind her. “Yes, of course I am. It’s just that – that, goodness India, you make me re-evaluate so much of myself for the better. And I’m starting to feel like sex is another one for that pile – I don’t like that I shut down and follow what I’ve seen to work when I’m with people. I want to be able to open up to you properly, and I just feel – feel bolted shut. And I know you of all people will notice that I am and you won’t want to be in a relationship with a locked door.”

India snickers a little, despite herself, at the image, and feels England huff in cautious laughter behind her.

She pushes against his arms where they hold her fast, until they relent at last and she turns to fully face him. India pulls an arm against his shoulders and uses the other to hold his face to hers so she can press a kiss to his forehead, sighing into the gesture, “ _How_ many times do I need to tell you that I _want_ to be here, sweetheart?”

England relaxes a little into her hold. “Sorry.”

India huffs at the apology. They stay like that for a few moments, and then another thought occurs to her: “Have you – have you ever told anyone else about Rome?”

England grimaces. “Not really. I mean, I’ve spoken about it with Portugal, but, well. She was there herself at the time. She wasn’t exactly in the dark about what Rome was like.”

India lays her cheek against his forehead. “I don’t think you’re a bolted door, England,” she says, slow and deliberate, “It looks like we both have a lot to work through. We’ll do it, in time, with each other,” she says surely, and because she can still see the dark hints at the corners of his eyes, she adds: “And that means you’ll probably need to invest in a good stain remover,” nodding down at the sheets they ruined half an hour ago.

It works: he huffs a surprised laugh into the hollow of her throat.

He pulls her into a hug. It is oddly sweet, and innocent, and India smiles into his shoulder.

He speaks into her neck: “I love you, India.”

She smiles wider into the top of his arm, murmuring: “I love you too, England.” And she realises, as the words echo around the miles of depth and history inside her, that they are true.


End file.
